


Like the Bright Moon

by unpossible



Series: The Last Traces of Smoke [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Therapy, discussions of sexual abuse, possibly triggery references please be warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:28:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpossible/pseuds/unpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay, so, this is it. I'm calling it. I think this 'verse could probably go on and on but I'd rather leave it here, with the boys working toward something real. You guys have been amazing, thanks so much for coming on this ride with me. It's been a joyful experience for me.</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

He’s in the shower when it happens, and thank God, Dad’s still stuck downstairs with his knee and can’t hear. There’s no good reason, as fucking always, just, he’s letting the water sluice the bubbles off his shoulders and suddenly he can hear the guy’s voice, picture those thick, stubby fingers and smell diesel. Somehow the guy had smelled of diesel even after he’d taken the mandatory shower.

_...dirty little whore... take it, yeah..._

I mean, they were such fucking _clichés_. Stiles swallows thickly and tries to steady his breathing. How can he be so bothered by something so trite? _Because they’re true_ , a nasty voice in his head says.

But those fingers, inside him, _no care no pause no_ _mercy no_ \- he can hear his own breath, the high whine of panic and Stiles folds up, kneeling on the bottom of the tub, hands out to brace himself and just tries to get through it. He’s nauseous, and he swallows hard, scared that one day he’ll actually puke with his breathing so out of control and choke on his own vomit.

He counts. That’s always helped. Counts the bubbles on his ankle, slowly sliding down. Counts the moles on his wrist, counts his heartbeats. He can still hear the guy’s voice, can still faintly smell the diesel but it’s fading slowly, and he fumbles for the nearest bottle, squirts some of it into his palm and lets the apple scent overwhelm him instead.

_You’re okay_. His oxygenated blood is moving around his body. _You’re okay, Stiles._ His heart is doing its job, a little too fast, but still working. He’s hearing a different voice now, one that calms him, _I’m here, you’re not alone_.

He lets out a wet sob at that, slumping against the side of the tub while the water beats down on his back. He fucking _is_ alone, though, isn’t he?

_Does he think about me at all?_

Stiles licks his lips and rests his head on his knees, carefully turns his thoughts away from that. He’d realized two weeks into this exile that he couldn’t think that way. He’d go mad. He’d do something stupid. He _has_ to – Derek _has to_ still be out there, waiting for him. He just fucking, he _is,_ okay. Even if it’s just in Stiles’ imagination, that waiting-Derek, that mirage at the end of it is what’s keeping him going. Not healthy, maybe, but it works.

Stiles sighs. He’s going to have to get up soon, the hot water won’t last forever.

Damn. When are these fucking panic attacks ever going to _end?_ He takes another shaky breath and fumbles for the faucet, cutting off the spray. When it’s stopped he lets his head roll back to rest on the side of the tub, and stares at the tiles on the wall, so familiar.

_I maybe... need help._

It’s the first time he’s let himself think it.

 

 

 

His Dad doesn’t even question it, which, okay. _Weird_. They dig through the office drawer and find the name of the therapist Stiles had seen back when-

Back then.

He’s still practising, which is nice. Sort of. Stiles doesn’t particularly have great memories of Dr Craig, but that’s probably more about grief and loss and adolescence than Dr Craig. He had, at least, come to trust the guy by the end of it. Hadn’t felt judged, or stupid. That should help.

It’s odd, because Stiles’ Dad insists on coming to the first session, which he hadn’t done since... well, a really long time. It makes him nervous, makes him remember the long, considering looks his Dad had given him when he’d visited at the hospital after he’d... _after_.

His Dad had fumbled muzzily through questions, clearly knowing something was wrong despite the drugs in his system, and Stiles had evaded with every tactic he knew. Verbal avalanche, sarcasm, deflection, playing dumb, and each time had felt worse and fucking _worse_. At some point, his Dad had stopped, probably waiting until he got home and then, well. Derek. Since then it’s just been watchful glances and strange pauses.

“Sheriff, Stiles,” Dr Craig greets them. He hasn’t changed much. Thank God he’s given up the weird facial hair experiment of ’09.

“Doctor.” They all sit.

Before anyone else can speak, Dad rubs his hands nervously on his thighs and gives the doctor a direct look. “I’m sure you know about my injury.” The cane is there, resting on the couch. New couch.

“Yes, I heard. It’s good to see you up and around.”

“I’ve been – out of action for a while. Months now, really. Stiles has been largely on his own, especially while I was in hospital.”

Stiles just sits, very still, listening. He keeps his eyes on his knees.

“He’s done an amazing job, he’s kept up his grades-” Stiles makes a face at that but yeah, he should maybe cut himself a break for slipping, considering everything.

“-he ran the house with just a little help from Melissa, he visited his grandmother-” Stiles flushes a little, remembering one weekend when he definitely _wasn’t_ with Nanna and which his Dad will never know about.

“-but I think it took a harder toll on him than either one of us has admitted. Something’s changed.”

Stiles lets out a slow breath.

“He needs someone to talk to. Outside of his Dad.”

There’s a pause, and then Dr Craig says in the neutral tone Stiles has not missed _at all_ , and yet which does somehow reassure, “Then I’m glad you both chose to come here.”

Dad nods. “It’s just.” He swallows hard and looks at Stiles. Stops talking to Dr Craig, abruptly, and says directly to Stiles, “I know there’s something you’re not telling me. Something you’re scared to tell me.”

He can’t move. Can’t breathe.

“I hope you know there’s nothing that would make me turn away from you.”

He bites his lip. Fuck. He’s going to start his re-entry to therapy with a bout of fucking tears.

“But if you can’t talk to me and you need to tell someone else, a – a friend,” and there’s a flicker of expression Stiles can’t quite interpret, “or Dr Craig, then that’s okay with me, as long as you’re dealing with whatever it is.”

He clears his throat and turns back to the doctor. “What I’m trying to say is, I know you have obligations, ethical and legal. But he’ll be eighteen in a couple of months, and knowing him, he’ll try to keep it all inside and keep on having panic attacks until then - or _forever_ ,” he adds wryly. There’s a pause. “I’d far rather Stiles feel free to talk about his worries, now, than worry that you’re going to turn around and discuss it with his father.”

Dr Craig gives that a slow blink. Stiles just freezes. Shit. His Dad has seen a lot more than Stiles realizes. Damned Sheriff instincts.

“I’m not sure, Mark, that I can promise ahead of time-”

“I’m not doing anything dangerous,” Stiles says. It’s probably time he spoke, considering he’s the reason they’re all here. He looks up at Dr Craig, not at all ready to face his Dad just yet.

“That’s what your obligations are mostly about, right? I’m not, I wasn’t suicidal or taking drugs or anything like that. And what’s bothering me is- it’s not still.” He swallows and forces himself to look his Dad in the eye. It’s the closest he can get to an apology. “It’s. Not an issue anymore.”

His Dad just nods and offers a tiny smile. Something around his heart eases.

There’s a moment’s pause. Then Dr Craig says, “This is most unusual.” When no-one reacts to that he says carefully, “I think I can generally agree that if Stiles is not currently coming to any harm, and we are making real progress, then. These sessions can remain between the two of us, unless Stiles chooses otherwise.”

He takes a quick breath, then another.

Dad just nods, then rises. “Okay then.” He glances down at Stiles. “You know where I’ll be.”

Stiles manages a smile. Yeah. They’ve danced this dance before. Of course, back then Stiles was too young to drive, so his Dad had spent his session times exploring all the stores along this street until he found a cafe that not only had topped up his coffee but had a view of a row of car dealerships. Dad _loved_ shiny new cars.

Difference is, this time, Dad will gimp his way down to the cafe and wait for Stiles to pick _him_ up.

The wheel just keeps on turning.

The door closes behind his Dad and he lets out a long breath. He can feel Dr Craig’s eyes on him. “So. Long time no see,” he begins, and turns back. “Like the new look,” he adds, ghosting his own fingers over his chin. “I always meant to ask if I saw you again, you related to Daniel Craig, by any chance? Because if you are, you should tell him that _Skyfall_ was totally awesome.”

The faint smile that touches the doc’s face is familiar, too.

“It’s good to see you again, Stiles,” is all he says.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 Stiles rubs his hands on his knees and thinks, _just fucking do it. Why else do you keep coming here?_ It's been over a month since he started seeing Dr Craig, and he's still dancing around the real issue. His legs are jittering uncontrollably and he ignores them, takes a deep breath and just jumps in.

“So. The uh, agreement with not-telling-my-Dad. Does that extend to.” He swallows, flushing stupidly even though someone with his past should really be past giving a shit or feeling embarrassment. “Sex.”

Dr Craig doesn’t even blink. “It does.”

He nods. He’d been pretty sure of that. It’s the only reason he bothered coming in the first place. Even without his Dad’s surprise announcement.

“I’ve uh. Been having sex.” His heart is fucking pounding.

“I see.”

He licks his lips. “Not. Uh. In a good way.” Dr Craig doesn’t speak but he can feel the other man’s gaze grow more intent. Stiles takes a few long breaths. This is it. Moment of truth. He can’t, doesn’t think he can say it. Not all of it, not all at once and maybe not ever. But at least this much.

“While dad was. In the hospital. I guess it, I was kinda messed up.”

“That’s perfectly understandable.”

“He was. Y’know, at first it looked like the damage was, I mean, we knew he wasn’t going to die.” Never mind that he’d practically shit himself at that first call, the pale set face of the Deputy who’d collected him from home, Scott’s hard grip on his hand at the hospital. “But he might’ve never worked again and then his- his _heart_ ,” and he locks up again.

Dr Craig just waits. It’s one hell of a superpower he has, that he can just be there, and not somehow exert any pressure to talk. Stiles wonders what that subject is called in college - PassiveWaiting101?

“I knew he wasn’t going to die,” he says again. Then he wonders why he keeps repeating that.

“He was shot,” Dr Craig notes. Stiles nods.

“In the line of duty.” He nods again.

“You must have had a lot of anxiety about that possibility. It’s a common enough fear amongst the family of law enforcement officers, soldiers, firefighters.”

For just a moment he thinks of Derek and his heart clutches. Then he remembers the clawmarks and the way they’d healed. Maybe that’s one terror he doesn’t have to carry in secret, or at all.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “For a while I was- handling it.”

“And then?”

“And then I. Made a bad decision. Kept on making them.”

“A bad decision.”

Reflective listening. Prompting. Like what cops do. Stiles almost smiles.

“I slept with a guy.”

“I see.”

“I didn’t. Particularly want him.” This isn’t so hard, Stiles just thinks of that first guy at the club, that first night. Not the guy from the pizza place, not the alleyway or the agency. He still doesn’t know how much he’s going to tell Dr Craig, whether he’s going to mention the money aspect.

He slants a glance over at the doc, catches him clearly in a moment of deep thought and there’s something in the set of his shoulders that makes Stiles realize, “Hey, no, not a – this isn’t a gay crisis, I’m not like, internally homophobic or whatever, I’m totally cool with liking guys. Sorry. I’m not being very clear.”

Dr Craig half-smiles. “It’s fine, Stiles. This isn’t the SATs. You’re allowed to stumble over the words, you’re allowed to use the wrong ones.”

Huh. Not really, if Stiles remembers his last time at therapy correctly. Sometimes using the wrong word is like a great big fucking neon sign saying _press here, it hurts_.

“So. Anyway. So I, yeah. Did that.” He stares down at his hands and says as much as he can. “And then I. Kept on doing it. I... slept with guys I didn’t particularly want, and I pretty much let ‘em-” He swallows, tries not to breathe in the smell of diesel “-do whatever they wanted.”

Dr Craig is staring down at the notepad in his lap. There’s no judgement on his face, which Stiles had pretty much expected.

“I wasn’t raped,” he says suddenly. “That’s not what – I mean, I consented. I agreed, I...”

“But you didn’t want them. Or perhaps, what they wanted to do.”

He shook his head, hard, mouth set in a line.

"Sounds like punishment.”

Stiles just blinks. Stays silent. He can’t, just can’t talk about the money. He can’t.

There’s a long, blessed period of quiet. Then Dr Craig asks, “You said this problem was behind you.”

Stiles nods.

“You stopped when your father came home?”

“Just – just before.”

“Was there something that prompted you to stop?”

He hesitates. Flicks a glance at Dr Craig. Chews on his bottom lip for a while and then says. “There was a guy. He was... different.”

“Different?”

Stiles stares down at his hands. Ridiculously, a faint smile touches his face. “Yeah, different. Well. For one thing, I uh. I actually...” he trails off, but of course Dr Craig doesn’t fill in the blanks and Stiles is forced to say it, “I liked him- I mean, I was, attracted.”

“I see.”

“And he. He _acted_ different. Like- not like I was cheap, y’know? Like he _liked_ me.”

“The others didn’t like you?”

He almost rolls his eyes. Then sighs. “I was just, you know, a body. Just,” he shrugs, “there.”

“But not with this new guy. You weren’t just a body to him.”

“Yeah. And he was- _more_.”

“To you.”

“Yeah.”

“That sounds like a positive improvement,” Dr Craig says, but Stiles can tell he’s not actually buying it.

“It was. Yeah.” He flails around for a moment with about fifteen things he could say and finally settles on, “He was the last guy I slept with.”

Dr Craig hesitates for a long time before he asks, “Why did you stop?”

“He. We... talked.”

A tiny flick of the brows.

“I told him about... what I’d been doing. The other guys, I mean.”

Now the doc is leaning forward a little. He hadn’t expected that, Stiles can tell.

“What was his reaction?”

“Like you’d expect. Furious. Not at me,” he adds hastily, “y’know, at the other guys. The situation, I guess. Kinda guilty.”

“Guilty?”

“That he was maybe just like them. Which is crazy,” he says, “because he totally wasn’t. But I couldn’t get him to see that, he’s all, like, self-blamey. You’d have a field day,” he adds, and Dr Craig’s mouth quirks at the corner.

He eyes Stiles, watchful. “This sounds like quite an intense encounter.”

Stiles nods. There’s a pause.

“This man, how long did you spend with-”

“Can we call him something?”

“Of course.”

“Okay.” He thinks, then grins briefly, “Remus, then.” Those eyebrows lift just slightly again. “We uh, spent a whole weekend together. And not just-” he stops abruptly, flushing beet red.

“You talked,” Dr Craig says kindly.

“Yeah.”

“And when this weekend was over, you stopped your previous pattern of behaviour?”

Stiles nods.

“It sounds as though Remus had a profound effect on you,” the doc observes.

“Yeah,” Stiles husks, and ducks his head. Runs a hand over the back of his neck.

There’s another of those long silences that says the doc is carefully considering where to go next. “How did the weekend with Remus end?”

Stiles blows out a breath, hard. Keeps his eyes on the floor. “He uh. Found out my age.”

“Ah.”

“It was, um. A deal-breaker for him.”

“He ended it?”

Stiles let out another long, shaky breath and let himself slump back against new couch. He likes new couch. He stares up at the ceiling. “It wasn’t just the age thing. I mean. He didn’t like that. But I guess, I mean, in a sense that horse had already bolted and kicked down the stable, y’know? Even not counting him there were, well, there’d been a _lot_ of guys. My number is kind of unattractively high for a seventeen year old.”

“The number is only as important as you want it to be.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, unbelieving. “Anyway. It was.” He flails his hands a bit, not sure what he’s trying to convey. “He said that. He wants to be with me- _but_.”

“But.”

“But I’m kind of messed up. Not that he actually said that. But, y’know. He wanted me to go back and be like, normal teenage guy again. As if that’s even _possible_ ,” he lets out a harsh, miserable laugh.

“So... this wasn’t a final break.”

Stiles shrugs. His throat is tight. “He said. I mean. He said he wasn’t planning on seeing anyone, he doesn’t sleep around, doesn’t even _date_ , apparently, which is just – I mean, if you _saw_ -” he stops himself just in time. “Whatever, he uh, he’s all like, go off and date and be a normal teenager and in six months we’ll see.”

“I see,” Dr Craig says for what must be the ninetieth time in half an hour. When Stiles finally forces himself to look, he’s staring pensively down at his notes.

“This sounds like an extremely intense relationship, for such a short period of time.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Doc nods again. “We’ll no doubt talk about ‘Remus’ again. But for now, I’d like to return to something you said earlier.”

And then they’re off, exploring the wonderful world of Stiles’ subconscious. By the end of the session Stiles is tired, kind of low, and staring up at the ceiling again. He hears the rustle of papers, glances down enough to see Dr Craig has shifted in his chair, leaning forward, hands clasped and his eyes intent on Stiles’s face. He’s clearly hesitating, but Stiles waits, and finally he says.

“Before I moved to Beacon Hills, I practised in Chicago.”

Stiles just nods.

“I specialized in adolescent development there, too, and I saw a lot of things there, Stiles, a lot of ugliness.” He hesitates. “What you’ve told me is a good first step to working on your panic attacks, and your general feelings relating to your sexual history and the choices you’ve been making. I just want you to understand that your story is in no way shocking to me. You understand?”

Stiles shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”

Dr Craig watches him narrowly, then says. “Your first sexual experience was hardly ideal.”

Stiles blinks, then raises his eyebrows sardonically. Doc is unmoved.

“But, Stiles, I have seen clients whose first sexual experience was with a family member. With a _parent_ , even.” Those compassionate eyes watch him.

He swallows. Okay, that’s... _horrible_.

“I’ve seen clients whose abuse ran so long they eventually convinced themselves they were in love with their abuser and in one case, married them. I’ve seen sex workers who couldn’t even begin to count their ‘number’ as you call it, who felt the money aspect had made them less than everyone around them.”

He sinks back against the couch and wraps his arms around himself. Dr Craig pauses, eyeing Stiles, then goes on gently.

“Those clients, and a hundred others, all struggled with similar feelings of being dirty, or cheap, or undeserving of the things other people – those allegedly ‘good people’ –" he even used air quotes "- can have. Love and affection. The right to say no. The chance to choose a partner who will respect them both emotionally and physically.”

Stiles' fingers bite into his ribs.

Dr Craig, says simply, “You deserve all of those things, Stiles. Just as my other clients did. Whatever choices or mistakes you may have made, it does not negate your right to have healthy relationships in the future. We can get you there. And we will.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

MONTHS LATER...

 

 

 

Derek pulls into a parking spot on the main street and turns off the engine. Stiles hesitates, then thinks, _fuck it, I waited six whole months I’m done with any and all waiting_ and leans across the Camaro to kiss Derek. He’s welcomed without hesitation and his hands clutch tight as the thought runs through his head _not hiding this, he’s not ashamed of me_ and he knows Dr Craig would have a field day with that thought.

He pulls back finally, remembering he’s about to see his Dad and sporting wood is not a good look for that, or for the entire staff of the station, most of whom have known Stiles since he was a little kid. “Okay,” he breathes, shaky. “I’ll um. Won’t be long.”

“It’s okay,” Derek says, voice very deep as he gazes back at Stiles. “I don’t mind waiting.”

Oh you _fucker_ , that is just. Stiles is just gonna explode with all these sexy-happy-relieved-moresexy-giddy feelings.

“Right,” he says. They stare at each other some more. He glances past Derek’s shoulder to the station. “Um.”

“Where do you want to go for dinner?” Derek reaches for his phone and then makes a strange face at it, possibly remembering Stiles’ conversation with Laura. Who is _awesome,_ and who laughed and laughed at hearing Derek called _sourwolf_.

“Anywhere, man, you choose.”

“It’s your birthday.”

He shrugs, then says, “Chinese.” He has extremely fond memories of watching Derek tip his head back to let noodles slide down his throat, sprawled out on the couch, post-coital and totally relaxed.

Derek nods. There’s silence, and then Stiles realizes they are grinning at each other like fools.

“Right,” he says again. “I’m gonna,” and he gestures vaguely toward the building.

“I’ll be here.”

Stiles hauls himself out of the Camaro reluctantly. He manages to cross the street fairly normally although his legs are shaking. He pushes through the familiar doors and then ducks around the corner into the little hallway that houses the public bathrooms.

He crouches, buries his hands in his face and makes a totally mortifying noise that’s part shriek, part laugh. “Oh my God,” Stiles mumbles, “Oh my _God_.”

He manages _not_ to shout any of what’s running through his head _he showed up-he came-he was leaning on his fucking car-did you see the jacket-and the shoulders-and oh my God he was there!_  He takes a breath. _He waited for me._ Stiles lets himself have one more celebratory strangled noise and then lifts his head away from his hands.

“Argh!” he yelps, and plasters himself against the wall in shock. His Dad is standing there, one eyebrow working hard to convey his wry amusement and confusion.

“Stiles,” he says, and toasts with his coffee cup. “You okay, son?”

“Uh. Yeah.” He reaches back with a sweaty hand and shoves himself upright. “Fine. Just uh, y’know. Having a little, uh, now-I’m-eighteen celebratory ritual.” He rubs his hands on his thighs and grins tightly, “Totally normal.”

“Riiight,” his Dad says, and turns to lead the way to his office.

Stiles accepts hugs and kisses from the receptionist and dispatcher en-route, endures some manly backslapping from a few of the deputies and one slightly intimidating bear hug from Warren, the mountain-man who’d been at Dad’s side during the shooting. They’d spent some bonding-time in the waiting room and after.

When he’s alone with his Dad Stiles obeys the gesture and shuts the door with that precious gold lettering _Sheriff_ , a little surprised. It’s normally open-door chatting when Stiles comes by.

“Happy Birthday,” Dad says, and set his coffee mug down. He sinks into his chair and lets it swing side to side a little, hands clasped over his belly.

“You said that already - this morning,” Stiles points out. He’s grinning like a total moron. Dad’s going to want an explanation for this.

Dad sighs, eyeing Stiles like he’s here to own up to a minor crime, then shakes his head grudgingly and mutters something to himself. He focuses his gaze on one corner of his desk and asks, “I’m guessing from the grin on your face that you have plans for the evening?”

“I uh. Yeah, I have plans. Awesome plans.” Because that _no sex_ thing is totally bogus. There’s – oh there’ll be _sex_ all right. Stiles is _all over this_. He bites his lip at the thought of being all over Derek. Again.

“Anyone special,” his Dad asks, sounding resigned. Which is- that’s weird. He’d been really happy about Stiles’ date with Erica.

“Actually. Uh. Yeah.” He ducks his head, grinning, and reaches out to toy with the corner of his Dad’s in-tray.

So. Older guy. Works kind of with his Dad, sometimes. This is gonna take some finesse. “I, um. I haven’t mentioned this before because I wasn’t sure, well-”

“Derek called, I take it?”

Stiles’ hand spasms and Dad’s in-tray somehow inverts. They both blink at it, the folders and papers now spewing across the desk and onto the floor.

“What? _What_ did you say?”

His Dad sighs. Wheels his chair back and forth a bit. “He came to see me. Few months ago.”

Stiles sits down in a hurry. “He- he _what?_ He came- you _knew?”_  He can’t seem to stop the flailing of his hands, thinks somewhere beneath the confusion _this is why the closed door._ “He told you- he- what did he- why didn’t you-”

“Breathe, son,” his Dad says, calm as ever.

“I don’t,” Stiles says, and just stops. His head is whirling, like, actually _spinny_. He scratches his hands through his hair, like his brain might restart from the contact.

“I know you met while I was in hospital,” his Dad says, every word grudging. “I know he helped you out with whatever it is you’re not telling me,” and shit, Stiles feels a little sick at seeing the hurt his Dad is trying to cover, “and I know he’s... _interested_ in you. Clearly,” he rubs a hand over his face, “he’s not the only one who feels that way.”

“Holy fuck,” Stiles says. “How could you – why didn’t you _say_ anything?” And how did Derek not get _shot?_  He is all at once gutted not to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation, and filled with grateful joy that he escaped _that_ shitshow.

“He told me he was staying away,” his Dad says simply. “I couldn’t see the point of dragging it all up if you were supposed to be getting some space.”

“I can’t believe he did that,” Stiles says numbly. “I can’t- _oh_ myGod,” he says, suddenly cold all over. “Did he, like,” he runs a hand over his face and forces himself to actually say it, “ask for your permission to date me or something?”

“Not quite,” his Dad says, dry as the desert. “He did offer a dowry...”

“Oh, har _har_ ,” Stiles shoots back. Then he stops, stares down at his feet. He can’t just ignore the part where his Dad is hurt, even though they’ve kind of skated on by, conversationally speaking, and he could probably get away with it. He bites his lip. “Dad.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it.” He swallows. “I know it must seem- I mean, like there’s this total stranger and I’ve, y’know, let him-” and then he freezes because that phrase makes him think of all the many things he’s _let Derek do_ , and that’s not helpful right now.

His Dad exhales slowly, scoots his chair around the corner of his desk until they’re roughly facing one another. “Look, I.” He hesitates, “I was hurt, I admit, when he first told me. But I’ve had time to think about this, and the thing is, I remember what it’s like to be your age and feel like you want to keep things to yourself, or that your parents will never in a million years understand what you’re going through.”

Stiles bites his lip.

“I just- nobody wants suddenly realize they’re on the fuddy-duddy side of that equation, y’know. Everybody wants to think they’re cool enough, or whatever.” He manages a wry smile. “It still, it does bother me that-”

His mouth works and he starts again. “I don’t like the idea of you thinking you can’t turn to me for help, Stiles. I know you. You take on burdens way too heavy, if you believe it will protect others. So yeah, I choked on that for a good long while. But. If you, if Derek helped you,” he says the words like they taste bad, “then that’s good. You actually asked for help, which god knows, was the biggest shock of all to me. And you’re talking to Dr Craig, so. I guess I don’t really have any grounds for insisting that you-”

“You know I trust you,” Stiles says in a rush. “Dad, I _do_. I just. I was so afraid you’d look at me like, like I’d let you down-”

“Never,” he says, fierce and solid. “ _Never_ , son. Not possible. I know you, Stiles. I know that heart of yours and I know that even good people screw up and make bad decisions. I promise you there’s nothing that would make me think less of you.”

He bites his lip, eyes down. For a moment he’s just shaking, not sure what to do next, then his Dad sighs.

“And today’s your birthday, so this isn’t something we need to settle now.” His Dad wheels back a little and bends to pick up the files from the floor that he’d crushed as he moved closer. Stiles watches jealously, then takes an easier breath when he sees how easily the knee shifts, takes Dad’s weight.

Stiles restacks the papers on the desk and then hands them over in case the order’s been screwed up. No way he’s messing up his Dad’s paperwork. Well. Any more than he already has. Prosecutions live or die by paperwork, half the time.

“Right.” Dad stands and surveys his in-tray with resignation. “Well.” He seems to hesitate, then steps forward and wraps his arms around Stiles. “Happy Birthday, son.”

Stiles hugs back, hard. They’ve done a little more of this lately, it was just too fucking close to know his Dad had been shot in the line of duty, how close he could have come to having no-one but Nanna.

His Dad takes a deep breath and starts to let go. “And have- a good night,” he says, clearly trying not to be grudging about it.

“You’ll like him,” Stiles husks out. “Dad. You _will_.”

The arms around him tighten. “I guess,” he says, and steps back. They’re both a little flushed. “He’s done right by you so far, I suppose.”

“He really has,” Stiles says. _More than you know._

Dad nods. “All right then, you should go. Wherever it is you’re going.” And clearly he suspects it’s straight to the nearest sex shop, followed by a swift deflowering in the parking lot.

“It’s just dinner, Dad,” Stiles lies.

“Right,” he says, and gives him that I’m-a-Sheriff-not-an-idiot look. “Nanna has rehearsal tonight. She said she’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he says as he rounds the desk again. There’s an odd note in his voice when he adds, “But she’s posted some kind of message on Facebook for you.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. There’s something sneaky in the way his Dad won’t look at him. Like he’s secretly laughing as he repositions his chair. “O-kay,” he says, wary.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Dad says, and then he smiles, for real.

“Yeah.” He pauses with his hand on the door. “Night, Dad.”

“Enjoy your date,” his Dad says, more easily this time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not until he’s yanking open the door of the Camaro that he finds out what his Dad had been laughing about. His legs give out as he stares at his phone and he falls into the car in a heap. Derek jumps, startled.

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles voice starts out wobbly, rising steadily in pitch as he says, “ _Why_ is there a picture of you on my Nanna’s facebook page?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

“It was lunch,” Derek says earnestly.

“Eh?” Stiles just stares across the car. He’s a little stunned.

“Because I, I went to see-”

“My Dad, yeah, he let that one slip when I was inside,” Stiles says. “Which, by the way, might have been nice for you to talk to me first.”

Derek is biting his lip. Totally unfair usage of Stiles’ fantasies there, which is possibly what makes him say, “Not that I’m mad, exactly. I mean.” He just stops. Honestly he doesn’t know _what_ he is.

Derek waits a second, and when Stiles doesn’t yell, he adds, “Your Dad called me. Asked me to go to lunch.” Derek spreads his hands helplessly, like, _what was I supposed to do?_

And Stiles lets out a helpless, huffing laugh. Yeah, he can see that from Derek’s point of view, that had pretty much been a no-brainer.

“So... what happened?” he asks, not sure that he wants to know and yet desperately wanting to know.

Derek shrugs, looking even more confused. “She... she _liked_ me.”

God fucking _damn_ it. How does he _do_ that, every damn time. There’s no _way_ Stiles can be mad now. Derek looks so _surprised_ by it, by something as simple as being liked by Stiles’ adorable, terrifying grandmother. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “We are going to talk about that. Another time.”

Because he’s still kinda boggling at how much manoeuvring has been happening behind his back in the past six months. If he was a different kind of guy, he might even be pissed. But he’s been through the wringer this year – they _all_ have, in different ways – and he can recognize loving interference when it goes and has lunch without him.

He’s still reeling from the whole thing when he shifts and realizes there’s something crinkling under his left thigh. He looks down, and instantly feels like an ass.

It’s a birthday gift. Irretrievably crushed, but still, undeniably, A Gift For Stiles, Batman wrapping paper and all. One end is starting to come open, there’s about thirty seven bits of tape there, which means Derek _wrapped it himself_.

Stiles is honest to fuck going to _cry_.

“You got me a _present?”_

“It’s your birthday,” Derek says helplessly. He spreads his hands, again, clearly worried that he’s screwed up here, like it’s possible that _buying a birthday present_ is somehow the socially awkward thing to do or crossing some invisible line.

“I can’t believe you got me a present,” he says, and slides it gingerly out from underneath one butt cheek. Man, talk about _smoooooth_. “Like just seeing you standing there wasn’t a present all by itself.”

He hesitates, then just tears into the paper like a ten-year-old, until finally in his lap he’s holding...

“A hoodie? You,” he snickers, can’t help the laughter burbling out, “you got me a _red hoodie?”_

Derek’s watching him closely, chewing on his bottom lip. “I – I thought-”

“You thought it’d be fucking hilarious, and it _is_...” Stiles can’t help it, he’s snorting in a very unattractive way but this is, Derek’s not only a werewolf, he’s _ironic_ , who the hell knew it, and he _planned a gift_ forStiles on his _birthday_ and wrapped it in _Batman_ paper, oh my God this is just-

“You are-” he launches himself across the console and finishes that sentence with a kiss.

 

 

 

They make it to dinner a little rumpled but otherwise okay, and Stiles has just long enough to think, _right, we’re in public, gotta remember Dad will probably hear details about this_ and then they’re sliding into a booth and it’s-   _oh God it’s a date_ -Stiles is on a date, _finally_ , one he gives a crap about.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” he says suddenly.

Derek goes still and gives him a long look.

Stiles shrugs, feels a smile come and go on his face, “I just. This is so.”

“Ordinary?” Derek offers.

Stiles goes still, staring across the table at Derek’s ridiculously beautiful face. “No,” he says. “That’s not the word I’d choose. At all.”

That gets a faint smile, and then the waiter is there to take their order. It’s quiet, and nice, and a little surreal, especially when their appetizers arrive with _another_ gift, this one a lot more professionally wrapped.

“Oh my g-” Stiles says faintly, “there’s not um, like eighteen gifts or something stupid like that, is there?”

“No,” Derek says, and ducks his head with a soft smile. “Just these two.”

He opens this one with a little more grace and then totally loses it when he finds two wind up toys – one Tardis and one Dalek. They eat, giggling like kids while the two figures zip around the table-top. Derek _totally_ cheats with his werewolf reflexes, catching them when they shoot off the edge of the table, and Stiles has tears in his eyes by the time their meals have arrived and swiftly been demolished.

“How did you even know I liked Dr Who anyway? Or Batman, for that matter?”

Derek gives him a _bitch, please_ kind of look. “I saw your laptop, remember? You had, like, ten directories of Dr Who and all the Nolan movies.”

“Right,” Stiles agrees, nodding. “Sneaky.”

Derek shrugs. But he glances sideways at Stiles again, something watchful and so Stiles waits a beat and then says, “What?”

Derek shrugs.

“No, no shrugging. Shrugging is banned. You’re giving me looks full of hidden meaning. What is it?”

Derek glances around the restaurant, then says with difficulty, “You seem... good.”

“Uh, I am? I mean, special birthday, surprise date, etc.,” and he waves a hand, not sure why this is requiring explanation beyond the obvious.

“No, I mean,” Derek shifts in his seat and leans a little closer. Stiles selflessly does not object to this. “You smell good, _happy_. Your scent and your heartbeat, they um, they agree. Now.”

“They didn’t before?”

Derek shrugs and looks away again. “Sometimes,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate. Stiles frowns.

He’s thought about this, of course. Had six whole fucking _months_ to look up werewolves on the internet, and found almost nothing that seemed to explain Derek and his family. And he’d known about the heightened senses. But. He hadn’t quite put all of that together to apply to Stiles, and the cues he must have been giving off the whole time.

His eyes widen for a moment as he wonders just how good Derek’s hearing is, whether it would extend to, oh, inside the Sheriff’s office _or the lobby area of the building_ and then he just soldiers on past that, in case he has any dignity left. “So... you can smell fear? Or nerves?”

“It’s not quite that simple,” Derek says, and fiddles with his chopsticks. He seems to think carefully about his reply. “It’s more like, a combination that you learn to interpret. Faster heartbeat combined with sweat probably means fear or lying. Consistently raised heartbeat is likely anxiety. Continual swallowing could be nerves.”

“Huh.”

“It’s good,” Derek says to the tablecloth. “The, your scent. Now. It’s healthy. Feels right.”

Stiles is frowning, watching him. He’s never seen Derek this inarticulate.

He answers absently, still puzzling it through. “Happy side-effect of seeing someone, I guess.”

Derek freezes. He flattens his hand on the tablecloth and seems to lean every atom of his body away from Stiles.

Stiles just stares, utterly confused. Then he plays back what he just said and the light dawns. “Oh. _Ohhh_ ,” he says, eyes widening. His hand reaches out to grip Derek’s wrist before he can move away, “No, I mean, not _seeing someone_ seeing someone. Not like, _dating_. I meant, I mean, a therapist. I’ve been seeing a _therapist_.”

Derek blinks, then everything in his body thaws and turns toward Stiles again. “ _Oh_ ,” is all he says, and there’s a weird moment before he huffs out a breath and relaxes and then they’re both laughing lightly, ruefully. “That’s... good, then, that it’s helping,” he adds, and they lapse back into silence.

Stiles is the one to break it.

“So tell me something,” he says carefully, and toys with the sauce dish just to give himself something to do. “You outed yourself to my Dad, you went to lunch with my family, you show up with presents on my birthday and you, uh, you say you want to take things _slow?”_

In his peripheral vision he sees Derek sink back to rest against the booth.

There’s silence, and the waiter collects their empty dishes and leaves again before Derek finally speaks. “During the – that weekend,” he says. “I was, uh.”

“Horny?” Stiles supplies.

One corner of his mouth lifts but Derek shakes his head. “I wasn’t exactly my usual self. I,” Stiles glances up to see him licking his lips and shooting sideways glances his way. “I could tell you were nervous. Scared of me.”

Stiles blinks at him. He’s almost forgotten that - the way they started. But yeah. He’d been shitting himself, truthfully. It had gone against everything he knew, and every safeguard he’d put in place, to just walk off with some random stranger.

“I. Yeah. I guess I was.”

“I could tell. I could... smell it on you.”

“Oh.” _Eww_.

“So I um, I made a big effort. To be... reassuring.”

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly.

“I – talked a lot. More than usual. Hoping you’d relax.”

Stiles blinks. Wow. Okay, so that was _talkative_ Derek? He turns that over in his mind. “And so you- what? You think that now I’ll, I won’t be into you?”

“Were _you_ totally yourself?” Derek asks, instead of answering.

Now it’s his turn to sit back. “I- I was. Okay, maybe not at the start. But. By the- by Sunday,” he hesitates, “definitely on Monday, I was.”

He turns his head and looks at Derek. Sighs. “But, yeah, all right. I guess I can see what you’re- well, _shit_. You might have a point.”

“I just think we should maybe get to know each other again. Slowly.”

Stiles eyes him and then nods slowly. He turns to look back at his birthday presents, nudges the Tardis with one finger. He can’t help the smile that overtakes his face. Maybe it makes him an asshole, but he’s only human (heh), and there’s at least one part of this he can’t help but enjoy. Because clearly Derek is out to impress.

Stiles Stilinski is in for some _wooing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, this is it. I'm calling it. I think this 'verse could probably go on and on but I'd rather leave it here, with the boys working toward something real. You guys have been amazing, thanks so much for coming on this ride with me. It's been a joyful experience for me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahem. So, okay. I know I said, ah, that it was over and that was it for the series, and I'm not *actually* a liar, I meant it, but. Y'know, people were all asking about the delivery guy and then there's been a lot said about Nanna and I agree that it's maybe crappy to not tie up the old "she KNOWS" cliffhanger, so.  
> two more chapters. little ones. then that's it.
> 
> shut up. it IS.

 

 

There should be a word for this sensation, Derek thinks. He needs a dictionary.

A state that has passed beyond nervousness and into a kind of constant panic: _see, Derek Hale [pictured]_

Laura would have a word for it, even if she had to invent one. Joyphobia? Gladxiety? Nerphoria? Never at a loss for a colourful description of Derek’s social failures, is Laura.

He’s a dumbass for getting so worked up, he knows that. It’s going well. Stiles loved the gifts. He’s enjoying the date. From that first moment, across the school parking lot, when the kid had just _lit up_ , everything has gone right, gone even better than he’d hoped.

Which is, yeah. Exactly why Derek is past-nervous-short-of-panic because. Well. Things just don’t go right for him, not like _this_ , not important stuff.

And so the nerves. The worst he’s had in many years. Worse than when he’d finally worked up enough bravado to take the red-headed EMT up on his dare to show up for a ride-along, prove Derek wasn’t just another piss-scared street rat. Worse than when he’d finally, _finally_ called Laura to let her know he was okay, that he was starting to pull himself together, learn something, feel like himself.

Derek has taken care of the check by the time Stiles comes back from the bathroom, has packaged up the Dalek and Tardis again, and can’t for the life of him stop rubbing his hands on his thighs, as some kind of outlet for the fluttering in his stomach.

“B-w-uh,” he begins. Oh yeah. _Smooth as ever, Hale_.

Stiles leg falls casually against his under the table. He shoots Derek a devilish glance. “Uh?”

“I um, made plans for dessert,” he says in a rush.

Stiles ducks his head for a second, a small, pleased smile spreading over his face. “Okay,” he says to himself, very soft. He glances up at Derek and reaches to gather up his gifts, “Okay,” he says again.

They’re in the Camaro and on the road to Palmerston before either of them speaks again.

“I went on a date,” Stiles says, out of absolutely nowhere.

“Uh, yeah,” Derek says before he can think better of it. “I know.”

“You _know?”_

“I mean. I heard.” He keeps his eyes on the road.

“You _heard?”_ Stiles says, voice going to a surprisingly high pitch. Then he slumps back in his seat and flings his head to the side, staring out the window into the night. “Fucking Beacon Hills,” Derek hears him murmur, and huffs a little breath of laughter, thinking how very much he’d agreed with that sentiment, back when the whole thing had been happening.

He’s not so bothered now. “So, how was it?”

“You didn’t hear all the details?” Stiles asks drily. “There’s not some blog entry about it somewhere?”

“I tried not to hear anything about it,” Derek says, trying for matter of fact. “At all.”

He can feel Stiles watching him but doesn’t glance his way. “It was okay,” Stiles finally says. “I mean. Nothing terrible happened. Just...”

“Just?”

“No magic. Y’know?”

Derek bites his lip to hide the pleased grin that’s trying to take over his face. “Huh,” is all he says, and Stiles lets out a huffing laugh, shaking his head.

 

 

 

Stiles is casting sly glances his way as they get close to Rosa’s, then his eyebrows shoot up when they blow past without slowing. He hums to himself, then seems to shrug and sink back into his seat, commences monologing about stuff he’s been doing in the past six months. Talks about his friend Scott finally getting up the courage to ask out Allison who, amazingly, said yes, and Derek thinks grimly to himself that at some point he’ll have to let Stiles know who Allison Argent is, or who she’s connected to, in the Hale universe.

But for now he just listens, makes the occasional comment that gets him a laugh he doesn’t feel like he deserves. And then they’re in Palmerston, and Stiles is a little edgy now, and Derek feels like a dick for not realizing that Stiles has other, less savoury memories of this town, for fuck’s sake he’s-

“We don’t have to,” he says abruptly, pulling in opposite the store. “I mean. It’s a stupid idea.”

“What?”

He shrugs. Angles his head toward the grocery store and watches as Stiles peers through the window, frowning, then his eyes go wide in recognition when he sees the guy behind the register. He makes a short, choking sound, “Oh my God,” he says, and his head whips around to pin Derek to the spot. “You, you _asshole_ ,” he says, and launches himself across the car and into Derek’s arms. Again.

Okay. Maybe he hasn’t actually screwed this up.

 

 

 

Delivery guy remembers them, eventually. After a few seconds of narrow-eyed staring, his pierced eyebrows shoot up and Derek doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick up and down Stiles’ entire length before he locks gazes with Derek.

Yeah. Derek’s _damn_ lucky he stumbled over the kid before the wider world discovered that fuckable mouth and those long, elegant fingers.

“Hey,” delivery guy says.

“ _Hey_ ,” Derek replies, trying to convey _I totally see you macking on my guy but I’m not gonna do anything about it as long as that’s where it stops_. Judging by the faint grin he gets, he’s somehow successful.

“Hey, superthoughtful delivery guy,” Stiles says, bouncing on the spot. He’s faintly flushed, his eyes keep returning sidelong to Derek and he hasn’t stopped smiling since they dragged themselves out of the Camaro. He has a visible hickey, low on his neck, and Derek makes a mental note that he’s going to have to control himself there. The Sheriff’s been remarkably cool so far, no need to push it.

“So...” Stiles turns in a circle, ignoring the curious trucker type that’s grabbing a quart of milk from the fridge, “what would you recommend as the best dessert in this fine establishment? Something that would really top of a world-class first date.”

Delivery guy raises a brow at Derek, _first date?_ and Derek just glowers back. It’s not like he _wanted_ to leave Stiles out there, free to walk away and find someone better. Derek is being the bigger fucking person here and delivery guy can just-

Right. Score one for over-reactions.

There’s silence, then the dude shrugs and says, “Dove Bar,” like it’s obvious, and judging by the triumphant crow and raised arms of triumph Stiles trots out for all to see, it _absolutely is_. Delivery guy smirks, takes careful note of the way Stiles’ shirt rides up to display a strip of skin above his jeans, and watches appreciatively as Stiles leans over to reach inside the freezer. Trucker guy has to actually rap on the counter to get the dude's attention. Derek does not growl. He is proud of this.

They buy a box of fucking Dove Bars and then Derek hustles Stiles out of there before he can be propositioned by delivery guy, who is clearly completely over his broken heart by now and on the market again. It’s just a shared taste for ice-cream, sure, but Derek isn’t about to risk it. A mate like Stiles comes along once in a lifetime.

They walk, slowly, shoulders pressed together, and Derek is so distracted by the heavenly scent of Stiles and the city at night – lost in memory – that he doesn’t even notice where their route is taking them until Stiles stops and turns, leans against the building and hitches one foot up to rest on the brickwork in an unmistakable invitation.

“So,” he says, and licks the last trace of ice-cream from his lips, “what on _earth_ could we do to entertain ourselves now?”

Derek blinks about seven times in an attempt to restart his brain. Then he realizes this is _his_ building. And Stiles, grinning, is brandishing his key. Fire flashes through Derek at the realization that Stiles keeps the key to Derek’s place _with him at all times_.

Derek is in so, _so_ much trouble.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for every comment and kudo(s), they're much appreciated. This is it for the Last Traces of Smoke.

 

This is. Weirdly domestic. And yet, like everything else that involves Derek, feels just right and easy and natural. Stiles shrugs and motions for Derek to precede him into the apartment, lets Nanna get her love-fest over and done with, since Derek is clearly her favourite now, if her facebook page is anything to judge by.

“Come in, come in darling,” she is saying, and Derek doesn’t even flinch. He looks down at her with quiet affection, hands so amazingly gentle on hers, and Stiles is a dumbass but it took him months to figure out that the Hale fire had taken all of _this_ from Derek, too. The cost wasn’t just the explosion of grief and rage at losing them in his teenage years.

He loses them every year, really. All the Thanksgivings and the Christmases and landmarks that form normal family life – high school and college graduations, his parents’ silver wedding anniversary, or a reunion weekend spent at the beach for his brother’s 30th birthday. Derek will never have that, and it makes Stiles want to just, somehow fling Nanna at Derek and say, _go for it, love the shit out of him, he deserves_ _it_.

Happily, Nanna requires no such instr-

“Oh my God,” Stiles says as his nose finally registers that smell. “You made _cheesecake_?” He nudges the door closed behind him and drops his bag to one side. “Nanna.”

She turns from Derek, and opens her arms.

“You think I would greet you with beet soup?” she asks, and he smiles into her hair. It’s a little darker red than the last time, and he reminds himself to snap a photo at some point to torment his Dad. Stiles thinks it’s completely hilarious that Nanna refuses to grow old, his Dad just winces.

“I solemnly promised Derek he would drown in cabbage by Sunday,” he replies, and she slaps his arm lightly. “I told him it was the way of our people.”

“Cheeky.”

He lets her go and she gravitates back to Derek, which surprises Stiles not at all. He goes into the kitchen instead and starts unpacking the bags of groceries Derek had hauled out of the car. Typical Derek, he thinks, heart about to burst with fondness. He still can’t properly express emotion, even now he’s just sitting quietly, letting Nanna pat his hands every now and then, no real smile or other sign how much he’s thrilled to be here. But he can buy a side of beef and drive three hours to find a store that stocks chocolate-covered plums and ptasie mleczko in order to present it to Nanna like-

Oh. My. God. This is absolutely _textbook_ wolf behaviour. Stiles is a moron for forgetting, even for half a second, Derek’s true nature. Derek might as well have killed a deer and dragged its bloody carcass up the fire escape to lay at Nanna’s feet. He snorts a little to himself at the imagery, and then spends a good six minutes in front of the fridge, trying to figure out how to fit everything in. They may have to resort to eating in self-defence. Lucky he’s a teenaged boy and Derek’s a supernatural eating machine.

He tunes back in to hear Derek saying, “...time off at Thanksgiving, Mrs Stilinski-” and Nanna interrupting with, “I think, _mój wilk,_ that you can perhaps call me Nanna, yes?”

Stiles grins to himself, trying to remember which endearment she has just saddled Derek with. His Polish gets rusty in between visits with Nanna, his Dad has never practised it much. Stiles suspects he had a tough time as a kid, picked on at school, maybe, for being the child of recent immigrants. That passion for justice had to come from somewhere.

Okay. So. The pantry is kind of a disaster, and Stiles’ best option is probably to cook something that will make room, so he drags out the bag of potatoes and starts peeling, listening to Nanna’s gentle river of questions as they run over Derek and draw out answers as if against his will. Stiles puts in an occasional word, teasing or prompting, but he’s happy to let Nanna and Derek talk in person rather than via email, for the first time.

And in the back of his head he just keeps turning it over, _mój wilk._

 

 

 

“Our village was small,” Nanna is saying, and her voice is low and slow and dreamy. Stiles sinks into the armchair, meets Derek’s eyes for a second before they both turn their attention back to Nanna.  The scent of potato pancakes is slowly filling the apartment. “But we never had the problems other villages did. No bears killed our cows and sheep. The chickens were safe from foxes. We were blessed, some said.”

Derek shifts on the couch, and Stiles notices in surprise that he is leaning forward, intensely focused on the old black and white photographs beneath Nanna’s fingers.

“Our cottage was at the edge of town, bordered by the woods. My mother was strict,” Nanna says with a smile, “she had tied rope around a line of trees inside the woods, and my sister and I knew we must go no further. But one day...” Nanna’s mouth twisted, a wry, sharp smile, “I chased a rabbit. Chased him into the woods and I was close, _so_ close to catching him I did not look once where I was going. By the time I did,” she said simply, “I was lost.”

Derek sinks back in his seat on a long, even breath. His eyes are very intent on Nanna’s face, hands clenched, and Stiles has the odd feeling he’s missing something, another whole layer of the story here.

“It grew dark quickly,” she said, “and I was frightened.” Nanna shivered, and in her eyes you can see it, all at once she is her seven-year-old self again. “We children told one another such stories, of the monsters that waited in the woods to devour us, of holes so deep no-one could hear you call for help once you had fallen in. We had no need to tell horror stories of the cold, and what it could do to the unwary. I knew exactly what it meant for me when the snow began to fall.”

“My father, I was told later, was already grieving. Stone faced, he held my sister close and would not speak. He had lost so much already, I think, that he always expected the rest to be taken away.”

Derek freezes at that, and Stiles doesn’t hesitate, reaches out to wrap a hand around his wrist and squeeze as hard as he can.

Nanna pauses for a second, obviously realizing what ghosts she’s invoked, but at Stiles’ look she goes on. “My mother, though. She was furious. Raging. She strode through the village like a warrior, my uncle said, making sure people were looking in every direction, determined not to let go of me. Not yet.”

“And then he came.”

Derek stiffened, and Stiles glanced at him, confused. Nanna was looking steadily at Derek. “He asked my mother for the coat I had worn that morning and she gave it without question. She never asked him why he needed it, what good it would do. She never asked how he found me.”

There’s a moment of silence, curiously loaded. “Who are you talking about, Nanna?”

“Aleks Sawicki,” she said calmly. “That was his name, _myszka_. He lived on the edge of the village, and kept always to himself. They called him the Watcher. It was rare, very rare for him to come into the village, into such a crowd. But he came that night, to my family’s door, and then he disappeared into the woods. When he came out again, he carried me in his arms.”

“He found you?” Stiles frowned. “That’s awesome, I guess, the weirdo loner saves the day. But, how? I mean-”

And then he freezes. Just fucking freezes. Because how could he be such a _moron?_ This is a fucking true confession, that’s what it is. And Derek and Nanna are staring at each other like statues. Which is nice, because it’s giving Stiles plenty of time to figure out what the shit all of that unspoken subtext was just now, and, in fact, _since they first damn well arrived_. _Mój wilk_ indeed _. My wolf_ , she’s been calling him _my wolf_ , right from the first goddam time Stiles had handed over his phone and laughed at Derek’s terrible, stilted conversational skills.

“Nanna?” he hears himself say, a little lost.

“My mother never asked,” she says again, softer. Her smile is for Stiles now. “She did not wish to know. But I knew, you see. I was not yet unconscious, though I was near to it, from the cold. I saw him, that face, and it was not human. But I was unafraid, for he wrapped me up in the coat and I knew he came from my mother.”

Holy. Fucking. _Shitballs_.

“You- you know.” Derek’s eyes turn to him, and he gazes from one to the other in wonder. “You know  about _werewolves?”_ he says.

“I promised him I would never speak of it to another human being. I swore it on my life,” she says earnestly and Stiles nods. He gets that. He’d understood the weight of that secret the moment Derek had revealed it. Nanna relaxes then, smiles again. “He remained apart from the village. But I visited him often, no matter what he said.”

She shrugs, dismissive, and Derek’s mouth is really working hard not to smile now.

If Nanna is formidable in her seventies, she must have been a frigging _terrifying_ little kid, with big liquid eyes and an innocent pout to go along with the will of steel.

Huh. Stiles sinks back into the couch, staring at his companions. He always suspected, but now he knows for sure. Nanna Stilinski kicks every other grandmother’s _ass_ , hands down.

Hair the colour of fireworks, pah. Anyone could do that. Zumba queen? Dime a dozen. But this? _Oh_ yeah. Stiles can hear himself laughing, helplessly, Derek watching him with confusion and fondness, equally mixed.

His grandmother runs with motherfucking _werewolves_ , people.

Coolest. Nanna. _Ever_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I have to give big thanks to nootherchoice for general help on Polish matters. I did still add something I'd found via google so if there's anything non-authentic in there, I accept all blame. I hope she likes the tiny shout-out I've added just for her, I know she spent a lot of time finding answers to my questions, and it's very much appreciated
> 
> Also, the venison reference is a tip of the hat to NimblePhoenix who has been very complimentary about my fic and who, I just realized last week is the author of Softer Than Silk, Stronger Than Iron which I am absolutely loving (please post more soon!). It has *twin* wolf cubs (awwwww). Seriously, if you haven't read it yet, do so now.


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